October 2007 Archives

It's only Wednesday, and yet somehow it's already been a long week. It's also Halloween, of course, which means nobody is really focusing on work because they're too busy thinking about getting drunk at a bar while wearing a feather boa or a Fembot costume, or whether you possibly have enough gold lame to costume yourself as a Eurovision Song Contest runner-up. Life is stressful. And Mercury is in retrograde, which probably means your dog will accidentally eat its Wonder Woman costume before you get a chance to take it up and down the street in the hopes of scoring some candy.

What better way to celebrate, or at last endure, this particular Hump Day than to acknowledge the brilliance of a woman whose Dynasty character pretty much treated every day like some form of Hump Day, if you know what I mean. Dex Dexter certainly does. As does Blake Carrington. And Mark Jennings, before he fell off her balcony. And a bunch of random Middle Eastern businessmen with oil leases, not to mention Ricardo Montalban's character Zach Powers. Oh, and we can't forget King Galen of Moldavia. And that's just the short list.

Behold, Joan Collins:

The earrings are like expensive versions of those brassy nightmares that were pretty much the visual centerpiece of Desperately Seeking Susan. The dress might be a nightie. And Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan would've worn almost this exact same thing in the 80s -- possibly with a turban made of that same white fur, but otherwise it's fairly close.

And yet, Joan Collins manages to look hot and regal and just as awesome as if she were still gracing our TV screens in an Aaron Spelling drama wherein her son was decorating her son-in-law's office with lead paint to make him crazy. Sharon Stone is well on her way, but she still can't quite hold a candle to the original. Joan doesn't just know how to amp up the drama; she exudes it and makes it look natural. She is a delicious, divine diva, and one of these years I really need to put my effort into going as either her or her alter-ego for Halloween. Really, I'm just afraid I won't do it justice, because seriously, nobody wraps herself in fur or fur-substitute quite like she does. Also, I would get marinara on that thing. Even if there is none in sight.

So, as we ease our way through what really already feels like it should be a Friday but cruelly isn't, here is a Fugment of Zen brought to you by the prodigious slappy talents of Ms. Joan Collins herself:

Camille Winbush is SO cute. She was cute on Bernie Mac, she was cute two weeks ago on Grey's Anatomy as the Chief's tragic, cancer-stricken niece. Although that particular brand of cuteness was sort of depressing, now that I think about it. At any rate: she is adorable. AND, according to IMDb, she owns an ice cream store/bakery in Pasadena (that she opened when she was 13!), and I can't truly hate on a girl who takes her acting money and invests it in snacks. But I can hate on this:

I mean, as jumpsuits go, it's -- wait. I can't even finish that sentence. It's a shiny denim jumpsuit and no amount of cuteness or ice cream can induce me to endorse a shiny denim jumpsuit. Not when there are so many dresses and skirts and pants and tops and caftans just floating around, begging to be put on and worn out. Think of the dresses and skirts and pants and tops and caftans, Camille! Think of THEM. Just promise me you'll think of them, the next time you're standing in front of your closet, eating an ice cream cone, and you consider jumpsuiting up.

Look, unless Meg Ryan is actually in costume as Ashley Olsen, and has been growing out her hair for months and months in preparation for this day, when she will impress all the neighborhood children with her ability to impersonate a famously rumpled barely-legal billionaire impresario while handing out mini-Twix, then I strongly suggest she consider at least BRUSHING HER HAIR:

Lady, listen: you're 46 years old. And while I absolutely don't believe that a woman needs to roll over and die once she reaches a certain age (unless that age is, like, 120, at which point I plan to be simply tired out), I do believe that there comes a point for each of us when bedhead stops being sexy and starts looking like you've turned into that nutty old lady on the corner with thirteen feral cats who is always leaning out her kitchen window smoking and yelling at the gardeners not to steal her mail. You're kind of getting there.

Maggie Grace looks a little tired.

And it's no wonder -- having a paper route is no easy feat. I should know; I've seen Better Off Dead about 100 times. That kid is tireless.  So, please, somebody, ANYBODY, just slip Maggie two dollars so she can go home, ice down her paper-throwing arm, and snag a nap.

There is so much to appreciate about Celine Dion. Like how she celebrated her marriage to Grandpa (which was aired live on Canadian TV -- like Princess Diana!) with multiple receptions, one of which involved, I believe, elephants. The way she pummels her own breast whilst in the throes of song. And, of course, her epic video for "It's All Coming Back to Me Now," which is possibly the most dramatic thing ever committed to film, as well as being an excellent song to wail in the shower. I can NOT, however, appreciate this:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

That bodyguard-looking dude and I have the EXACT SAME expression on our faces right now, namely one that says, "WTF, Celine?" I have no doubt that it's chilly wherever La Dion is right now, but is that any excuse to layer what looks like baby bunting over saggy leggings? It is not. And this hurts me. I don't mean to be overly dramatic, but when she's not out wearing something majorly over the top and crazy -- like her backward Oscar suit -- I feel so alone. All by myself, if you will.  I know,  I know: my disappointment is a tale as old as time. But, you guys, it's true as it can be. My heart seriously is not going to go on.

Can you imagine how different Brad Pitt's life would be if he had ended up with Juliette Lewis as planned, instead of breaking up with her and then getting with Gwynnie and Aniston and Angelina?

I mean, maybe it'd be relatively similar -- he'd still be hot, after all. Maybe the big difference is that Jennifer Aniston might not have gotten her reputation as the sad, tragic, cuckolded waif. But do we think Brad Pitt would've ended up doing all the relief work and adopting or fathering a Benetton ad's worth of beautiful babies if he'd decided to betrothe himself to this woman?

[Photo: infdaily.com]

Nothing against Juliette Lewis -- I don't know her; maybe she really likes relief work and adopting children, or maybe her tears can cure cancer or something -- but I feel like if he'd gone this route for life, Brad Pitt might be taking a break from showbiz to hang out in the front row of all her concerts wearing spandex pants, stained tank tops, and a mullet. I guess the benefit of this outfit is that Juliette can't work up any of her trademark performance pit-stains, and I don't even hate the pants if I focus hard enough and ignore the Victoria's Secret Swimwear style bathing suit she's wearing under them, which I imagine will make it very difficult for her to go to the bathroom later unless she's wearing a Poise Pad. But I do find myself wondering why she was in such dire need of knee pads.

Perhaps she thought they were a precautionary measure:

If anyone decided to modernize Little House On The Prairie -- I don't know, set it on an alpaca farm somewhere in Iowa, right near a giant outlet mall -- then Joy Bryant would already be dressed for the lead.

[Photo: Splash News]

It's like she walked into Wet Seal and picked up one of everything that was on sale. And while that's sometimes fine -- apart from the leggings, of course, unless she's in a yoga class or dressing up as Lindsay Lohan for Halloween tomorrow -- it's a little overwhelming to wear every item and accessory all at once. Especially when one of her booties seems to be peeling itself like a banana. 

I do not know what Kerry Washington is up to, here:

[Photo: Splash News]

Is this an early re-purposing of her Halloween costume? And if so, what was she? A sexy witch with a fetish for goth shower curtains? The Employee of the Year at Hefty, attending a trash-bag-themed ball in her honor? An incredibly depressed employee of JoAnn's Fabrics, who's wrapped herself in the glummest remnants and is about to write a long, long diary entry about how the selvage of her soul will never end up in the rag bag of your heart, but will instead occupy the center of a quilt of truth and justice, stuffed with the cotton batting of justice and understanding? I hope it's the last one.

So, I have this issue with Cashmere Mafia - which has to premiere soonish, I guess, we're practically at November sweeps here, people -- which is that I keep getting it confused with Lipstick Jungle (which I guess doesn't start until after the NFL season is over, and then I won't watch it anyway, because it's on during Brothers and Sisters and the other night I had this dream that I was married to Balthazar Getty and we were REALLY HAPPY [ironically, I had a similar dream back when I was in 10th grade] and I can't not watch the show featuring the man to whom I was so blissfully dream-wedded ). I am sure I am not the only person doing this, since they sound exactly the same (if only the CW would throw their hat into the ring with Pedicure Coven and CBS would close the circle with Tampax Warriors). AND Patricia "Sex and the City" Field is doing the outfits for Cashmere Mafia even though the Candace Bushnell book-based one is the OTHER one.  In fact, I had a whole conversation with Heather the other day about the book Cashmere Mafia is based on and how I found it surprisingly entertaining and good and then I realized that I really meant Lipstick Jungle and oh my god, just keeping them straight is making my head spin and that's not even taking into account the fact that they will probably both suck, but might have interesting clothes. You know, like this:

[Photo: Splash News]

All I can say is that PLEASE GOD this better be a situation where they're just filming her from the waist up, because if we're all supposed to be wearing fabulous gold suits that probably cost like thousands and thousands of dollars with UGGS(!), then I can NOT be held responsible for my actions, which will probably -- no, definitely -- include violent acts illegal in several states and a whole heck -- a whole HELL of a lot -- of swearing.

But I do like Lucy's lipstick.

Though I recently read that our gal Phoebe Price is making a film titled Strawberries for the Homeless (which...you know what? I really don't even want to know), it seems to me that her most recent appearance should more accurately be called Wallpaper for Dressmaking:

I do like the idea, however, that this dress matches her bedroom walls, and that when she puts it on, she runs around pretending to be a floating head and a pair of legs.

Oh, Sharon Stone. You're so crazy/fabulous. I hardly ever seen you anymore, unless you're out being the amfAR spokeswoman and official auctioneer, which is, admittedly, an excellent reason for you to leave the house. And, if I may be frank, I miss you and your glamorous/wacky shenanigans. I sort of wish you were my neighbor, honestly. I feel like you probably secretly cook, and therefore would bring over cookies sometimes, and then we'd stand out by the pool and gossip about how the guy across the street is always wearing short shorts and wonder how his wife puts up with it, and then I'd tell you all my dating woes, and you'd snort that YOU married a guy who got bit by a dragon at the zoo and everyone's always making cracks about having seen you panty-less before it was popular, so I should just shut up and enjoy myself, and then you'd realize you were missing Dr. Phil and we'd both go back inside. If I were Debby Boone, I'd say that you light up my life. If I were Bette Midler, I'd note that you are the wind behind my wings. If I were Dolly Parton and/or Whitney Houston, I would croon that I will always love you, Sharon. But because I am me, I have to first do that and then note that  -- whether your wrap here is faux or vrai -- NO ONE needs a fur wrap the size of a king-size duvet, not even you:

You look...well, crazy/fabulous, of course, but mostly crazy because -- leaving aside the question of how many bears or whatever had to die for that thing and/or how many faux fur makers worked their fingers to the bone stitching it -- that thing is so big, you basically just look like you're lugging your bedspread down to the cleaners after a particularly rough night of extremely formal party hopping.

Not to mention the fact that a wrap larger than some studio apartments, by definition, obscures the rest of your dress, which is actually very chic:

This dress adds ten pounds to Kerry Washington that I'm fairly sure she wishes would go back to the theoretical realm whence they came, or at least go and plague photos of somebody else whom she doesn't like very much.

Still, that's what you get when you don something from Mr. Snuffleupagus's ready-to-wear line -- sure, he may be a sensitive friend with the kind of cruelly long eyelashes that could make any girl weep with jealousy, but the dude doesn't really understand how to design for a woman's body.

Is this what it's come to, Nicole?

No one's really talking about you as an actress any more, so your solution is to shuffle down the red carpet with your carefully shaggy husband while wearing a see-through dress and shoes, the latter of which look like you just got through performing "Let's Go To The Movies" in your dressing room while a scrappy red-headed orphan followed you around and pretended to understand all the cultural references you were making at her? Honey, listen, I know we were in a fight after Bewitched and everything, and it's upsetting that you won't go back to the red hair that is so much more flattering on your frozen face, but you didn't need to make a cry for attention. I mean, if ANYONE should be crying out for our help or attention in these weird times, it's Kat(i)e Holmes, and yet you don't see her skipping around behind Tom trying to draw people's focus from his troublingly boyish Valkyrie coif by giving us a peek at her lingerie.

But at least you're wearing a coat, and aren't likely to take that off any time soon, OBVIOUSLY, since you are not wearing a real dress.

Oh, except:

"Delta," she seems to be about to say to her shiny companion. "Is that somebody waving and pointing at me over there? What's he trying to say? Something about London and France? Oh well. It's too bright to tell. I guess I'll just ignore him."

I'm PRETTY sure she won't bend over, though.

I suppose it's no surprise that MySpace's high priestess of nudity, Tila Tequila, would show up at an event modeling a number that appears to have been plucked from our girl Bai Ling's "Too Obvious" pile (which, in case you're wondering, is located on the floor of her closet between the "Too Nonchalant" and "Too Orange" piles -- Bai is big on alphabetizing).

And yet I admit to being surprised by the actual fact that high-waisted short-shorts THIS high-waisted and this INCREDIBLY short-short are actually available for purchase. I mean, these things are SHORT.  And while Tila of course is in great shape, that's kind of not the issue. I don't think it's revolutionary to feel that shorts shorter than boy-cut underwear should be worn with great, great discretion, and perhaps only as part of a burlesque performance. I think we've all had the experience of walking into, say, the 7-11, minding our own beeswax, just there for a Slurpee, and coming across another customer, one wearing terry cloth dolphin running shorts (for example) so wee that both of her butt cheeks are falling out of them. And generally, at that moment, you exchange  A Look with the guy behind the counter, and almost always the meaning behind The Look
is not, "HOT DAMN! Sexy ass flaps!" It's more often, "WOW. Someone needs to PUT IT AWAY, right?" Even when the short-shorts wearer is in amazing shape, it's just awkward to see that much rearflesh when you're out and about, whether you are at a red-carpet-having event or picking up another box of Red Vines. It makes everyone feel a little concerned about what might pop out next. And so although we now know definitively that it is possible to purchase what is essentially a bleached denim swimsuit and wear it to confession, or AA, or a party launching a new vodka, or Hot Topic, or whatever your errands may be, I beg you to spare a thought for the rest of us. Starting with you, Tila.

I'm sure Amy Adams's old school-y two piece number is all very fashion-forward, albeit in an incredibly monochromatic way:

But I can't help it. Every time I look at her in this, I think, "shoot! That reminds me: I have to buy wrapping paper."

I think I'm developing a girl-crush on MGH right now. Although I can't call her that again, because it sounds like a beer -- like a hybrid blend called Miller Genuine High Life, billed as the Prosecco of beers rather than the champagne of them. And that's not fitting for Marcia Gay Harden, because she is nothing less than the champagne of hotties in this dress.

She looks fantastic -- age-appropriate but not stodgy; cute and fresh, but not like she's trying to emulate some fancy 18-year old pantyless coke fiend spreading her legs on the way out of a limo. And I think we all know how tempting it is to copy THAT behavior, so she's clearly mighty of will in addition to being formidably well-dressed. Bravo, non-skanky hot lady. Bravo.

JERRY: Don't worry about a THING, Renee, it's all going to be FINE. Just keep smiling.

RENEE: Wait, what?

JERRY: I'm not gonna lie to you, it doesn't look good.

RENEE: You don't like it? Damn, that is cold. I thought it...

JERRY: It's not a matter of opinion. It's empirically awful. But smile through the pain and the night will be over soon.

RENEE: It's that bad, huh?

JERRY: Worse! It's NEWMAN bad.

RENEE: Oh, God, I had no idea. I could've sworn this was flattering.

JERRY: Not even a little! You were SO wrong!

RENEE: I guess I'll send it back then.

JERRY: Wait, that thing is a WIG?

RENEE: No, it's by... hang on. Wig? You're not talking about my dress?

JERRY: Hell no! Although come to think of it, the top DOES look a little prickly. But, no, I was talking about your hair. It's a nightmare!

RENEE: Well thank you, Jerry.

JERRY: It's like a giant crab climbed out of your bowl cut and has your head in its claws! WHAT is the DEAL with THAT?

RENEE: Ah, that old chestnut. You couldn't resist, huh?

JERRY: Renee... have you SEEN those NBeeC TV juniors spots I did? I can't resist ANYTHING any more.

It's so nice to see them get something right:

At last, at last, Wee Bell has realized that less is more on her weensy little frame! Not to mention the fact that this is an amazing color on her. Hmm, if she's sussed out the mysteries of her wardrobe, maybe it's not too much to hope that she'll manage to whip the current seriously lackluster season of Heroes into shape after all.

I have been staring at this photo for an hour now. I am finding every excuse to procrastinate dealing with the blank Typepad window: I swept the living room. I started some laundry. I contemplated cleaning the fridge. I even turned on The Tyra Banks Show. No, really.

But Juliette Binoche just won't go away.

Not to Studio 54, not to Xanadu: The Musical, not to hit pseudo-celebrity weight-loss program Dancing With The Stars. She won't even run back to the dungeon room where her evil stepsisters threw her, forcing a bunch of stoned mice and her Fairy Sienna Godmiller to throw together something that at least covered her bits enough to get her out of the house. No, Juliette is out and proud in that thing.

And listen, pride is great. It's also awesome that she's comfortable enough at 43 to be in Playboy this month in France, but seriously, "disco bag lady" is not Juliette Binoche's best look. She should really leave the vagrant style with Helena Bonham Carter, where it belongs.

TOM CRUISE: Ladies and gentleman! If I may draw your attention to the center ring! Her torso is longer than my entire body! I've haven't yet figured out how to force her to wear flats all the time! At home, I sometimes secretly call her Long Arms McGee! KATIE HOLMES!

KATIE HOLMES: This is so embarrassing, Tom. I'm not your Real Doll.

TOM: You kind of look like one! A really EXPENSIVE one. And I called you Katie! Katie Holmes! Wasn't that nice of me? Are my bangs too severe?

KATIE: I wish you wouldn't parade me around like this. It makes it hard for me to pull up my dress. Also, does it look like they somehow attached the skirt part of this thing backward? There's like this weird front bustle, and I can't figure....

TOM: My bangs, Katie! You didn't answer my question about my bangs! I took in a picture of Lily Allen to the hairdresser! Do you think I went too far?

KATIE: I'm beginning to think this whole thing has gone too far.

TOM: MARVEL AT OUR SHINY SHOES! BEHOLD --

KATIE: Oh my god, can we just go inside now?

Blurry stills are leaking out from the set of the hotly anticipated -- by people who like to laugh -- Repo! The Genetic Opera, a musical film about hijinks in a world where people's organs are failing like crazy and if you can't keep up with the payments for your replacement parts, a Repo Man comes and fetches 'em out of your body. Doesn't it just already make you want to break into song? It's like Rent combined with a Twilight Zone episode.

Mostly, the only reason anyone is keeping tabs on the movie is because it features Paris Hilton. In a singing part. On purpose. It's allegedly part of her attempt to prove that, like Sears, she has a softer side. A side that actually likes to work hard for the money, so hard for it honey.

[Photo: Splash News]

And yet... doesn't this particular still look less like, "Oh, sweet Paris, she's building a career," than, "Oh, Paris must be making invitations for her next big Halloween party"? This is about what I imagined All Hallows' Eve looks like at her manse: bustiers, wigs, hideous clothing, dry-ice machines desperately belching out ambiance, and of course a pair of muscular naked dudes in harnesses holding parasols. Maybe this movie is more of a documentary than I thought.

So, you all know my stance on the formal shorts issue, of course. And I'm pretty sure that if Km Stewart or someone showed up at the Ivy or whatever wearing this, I would snit, "Nice try, Kim Stewart, but you are NO Gwen Stefani," and then I would flounce off the interwebs and off to my room. On the other hand, Gwen Stefani IS Gwen Stefani, and, ergo, I feel like she's kind of working what appears to possibly be formal dolphin running shorts and shortie boots:

I know Lady Gabriella Windsor here is only thirty-second in line for the throne of England, but that's no reason to just throw caution to the wind and start popping up places dressed like Eliza Doolittle circa her downtrodden flower-shilling period:

I can't imagine Her Majesty would approve. Unless, of course, her interest in extended family members cuts off at Number Thirty.

Look, I am not here to hate on the Backstreet Boys. Sure, when I heard they were getting back together, I may have made a "Backstreet's back! (All right!)" joke, but no one -- no! No one -- performed a more soulful and touching car dance to "I Want It That Way," back in the day than I did. What "Carmen" is to Olympic figure skaters, "I Want It That Way" is to car dancers, and I must say, I often felt like the Katerina Witt as I sat at stop lights, waving my right arm emotively. However, it does appear that one of the boys missed a style meeting:

This is the part of the post where we all desk dance to "One of These Things Is Not Like the Others."  I know AJ McLean has a history of operating under the impression that he is in the Red Hot Chili Peppers, or something, but never is his devotion to being The Bad Boy more apparent than when he shows up for an event dressed like that hardcore guy down at the food co-op who insists on fist-bumping you after you buy a bag of tomatoes while the rest of the guys look like they're on their way to a parent/teacher conference.

KELLY WEARSTLER: Hey, Doc! Good to see you.

DR. CHANG: It's... interesting... to see you, too. On several levels.

KELLY: Ah, you don't like my dress.

DR. CHANG: Is that what the kids are calling it?

KELLY: Listen, I ate a lot of air to get these abs.

DR. CHANG: Yes, but I'm a BREAST SURGEON, doing important work to fight cancer, and I don't even see that much underboob every day.

KELLY: Well, but I had to do SOMETHING.

DR. CHANG: Why? Did your pelvic bone blackmail you?

KELLY: No, see, I forgot my hairstylist. And if I don't have my signature crazy hair, what am I? If I show up in the front row and nobody's view is blocked by my back-brushed curly cranial shrubbery, then do I even really exist?

DR. CHANG: So you... created a diversion?

KELLY: Exactly! Plus, my bod clearly has the top design.

DR. CHANG: You do know that making awful Top Design puns isn't magically creating any fond memories of that show. Right?

KELLY: Hey, I had to try.

Dear Emmy:

WE GET IT. YOU'RE DEMURE.

ZAC EFRON: I feel...so strange right now.

JANET JACKSON: My weight loss/gain cycle IS amazing, isn't it? But I believe the word you're looking for right now to describe me is HOT.  Do you like my veneers? Take a real close look if you want!

JOHN TRAVOLTA: Yes, my shirt IS gingham. Wanna make something of it?

ZAC: Seriously. I need to sit down. I hope no one spiked my drink. I just saw something about that on Lifetime. What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to lie down? I want to take off my tie.

JANET: God, this is SO MUCH BETTER than the time Star Magazine was saying I bought out the House of Pies. Which was a LIE, by the way. Can't a girl eat a pie now and then in this town, anyway? Am I right?

JOHN: Nothing wrong with a smart little check, is what I'm saying.

ZAC: Are there TWO Janet Jacksons next to me? I'm scared. I think my skinny tie is talking to me. It just said, "Zac! I'm anorexic!" That doesn't make any SENSE! Maybe I shouldn't have mixed my Benadryl with those four martinis. But I'm thirsty, AND I have allergies! What was I supposed to do?

JANET: I feel so happy right now, I'll even answer questions about my secret marriage! Yes! Ask away!

JOHN: My shirt matches one of Kelly's aprons. Gingham rocks!

ZAC: This party is weird.

I have to hand it to Ashley Tisdale for being 22 in Hollywood and somehow not a clammy mess of coke-dusted roadkill. Seriously, that's no small achievement. Way to go, Ashley. That doesn't mean I'm going to watch High School Musical, though. So don't ask.

However, I do wish you'd stop confusing me.

I saw this photo and thought, "Yikes. But, you know, she's only 15 or something; she's going to make mistakes like having some sort of creature on her shirt that mostly looks like the telltale trail of a powdered donut." But of course, she's in her 20s. She's old enough to go into a bar, wearing this -- and not even on Halloween -- and order herself a shot of something with "hooter" in the title despite the fact that she's got on cuffed jeanshorts, knee socks, and shoes that the Back To The Future II prop department rejected for lacking realism.

Although, once she changed her clothes, I found myself almost nostalgic for Eau de Sassy Freshman With Designs On the Pep-Squad Captaincy.

It feels like 90 percent of the time we flip the Fug or Fab coin, it's because of something Cate Blanchett has worn -- which is one major reason we love her; the woman is never boring, nor is she afraid of anything. Not even our fictional Fug or Fab coin. Which, if it existed, would probably have either Intern George or a pair of Louboutins on one side, and leggings or a picture of Sienna Miller's closet on the other. Maybe there are two coins. Maybe we flip one of them to decide what goes on the other. Or maybe I need to climb out of this wormhole before it gives me insomnia.

Anyway: Cate. She's crazy. Or is she? Yes, she is. Unless she isn't.

Gorgeous face. Love the blowout. She glows. And you can't deny that dress has major drama, even if it does leave an odd amount of room for her to have a full pelvic cast tucked away under there, or perhaps a pony keg. But the bodice scares the bejeesus out of me. It feels a tiny bit like Lil' Kim gone couture, as if one of Cate's breasts MIGHT pop out with a pasty on it that's patterned after an Elizabethan ruff.

It is a rare day indeed when Cate Blanchett and Lil' Kim get to appear in the same post, but now that we're here, maybe we should take it a step further and arrange a rollicking tea party so that they can discuss the acquisition and application of matching high-fashion nipple covers, the appropriate length for a slit up your leg, and the underlying thematic similarities of She's All That and Elizabeth. You know -- Queen Liz the First got a makeunder and became one of the greatest monarchs England has known; Laney Boggs took off her glasses and bought high-heels and became... a really sort of marginally better-than-awful artist with nice cleavage. They're practically the same story.

I'm all for being comfortable when you're traveling, or running errands, or texting your personal assistant horrible rumors about your ex-husband on the off-chance that they might find their way back to a supportive tabloid or two. But I'm unclear how any of these ten layers ARE actually comfortable.

[Photo: Splash News]

The orthopedic sneakers, sure. But the velvet jeans, plastic shirt, enormous sweater-tunic, and  hat... how is she not sweating up a storm? That outfit only works if, say, Lindsay Lohan decides to sign another contract with Disney to clean up her image, and returns to the big screen in a film about being the first female steam-engine conductor, a chimney sweep, a futuristic soldier of fortune, AND a high-schooler -- all rolled into one. Sort of like Mary Poppins meets Quantum Leap with a dash of Back To The Future III. I'd watch that. Not with Heather Mills in it, though, unless she wants a job as Lindsay's stand-in -- I mean, hey, from the back, Millsy might even be sort of pleasant.

Here's the thing: This dress is a gorgeous color and it's better and classier than about 98 percent of what Nicole puts on her body when she's in Pussycat Doll mode. In that sense, props to her for finding her inner tastefulness amid all that confident sexy confident-sexyness.

I just wish she'd worn lip gloss. The first time I looked at this picture, I actually thought her mouth had been blurred out -- and while I sometimes wish that would happen to her while she's performing, it was still freaky. Just a LITTLE tint would've helped. Maybe on the new season of The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search For The Next Pussycat Doll: Finding Somebody Other Than Asia: Dude, She Totally Dropped Off The Face Of The Earth After Winning The First Season: And Robin Antin Needs To Pay Her Mortgage, they can do a segment on teaching the girls that a nude/downplayed lip does not mean an ABSENT lip. And also that they should ignore a lot of the OTHER things the Pussycat Dolls do to themselves. But mostly the lip thing.

I'm very sorry to have to induct Jennifer Hudson into the Dude, Is That A Bridesmaid Dress? Honey, No club:

Membership includes such perks as: people swanning by holding nearly-tipped-over champagne flutes and trilling, "and when are YOU going to get married, dear? Tick tock!";  six to eight unscheduled, early-morning phone calls from a woman named Mean Judy who works at the bridal store up the street, the subject of which ranges from how late you are in ordering your dress and how you'll probably therefore ruin the wedding and, it is implied, your friendship with the bride, to the demise of The OC, to global warming; strangers running up to you and throwing bouquets at your head; and a free lifetime supply of Spanx. The good news is that there will also be cake.

EMMA ROBERTS: Hi, Emma!

EMMA WATSON: Hi, Emma!

ROBERTS: You look cute! Even if I do suspect you're wearing pirate boots. It IS almost Halloween, and everyone loves a pirate! Anyway, your top makes up for it! You look so young and chic!

WATSON: Thanks, Emma! You look cute, too. Your dress is mildly prim and adorably retro, and I just love a good side part!

ROBERTS: Me TOO! So, we're basically best friends now, right?

WATSON: Clearly. Matching and/or similar hair parts  is simply the way our souls have chosen to communicate. Now can we talk at length about how refreshing it is to be two of the few young women in Hollywood who aren't rumored to be dating some old random weirdos, or on drugs, or flashing people, or going to jail, or mailing out naked photos of ourselves to people? Ooh, and then can we talk about how our names are ALMOST palindromes? NO ONE will ever talk to me about that!

ROBERTS: I guess so. I wanted to talk about how Dumbledore is gay. Oh, and about Rupert Grint and how he is or is not like Ron Weasley. Is he like Ron? I bet he is. I just love Ron. Aren't you glad she didn't kill Ron? I am. Oh! And about Daniel Radcliffe! Tell me everything! Everything! Have you ever made out with him? Have you been to his house? Does he ever let you borrow his pants? Can you set us up?

WATSON: This is never going to end, is it?

ROBERTS: You can ask me about my aunt Julia if you want. She bit me once. I'll show you the scar. We are best friends, after all.

WATSON: ...okay, that seems like a fair trade.

One of my personal fashion rules of thumb is that menswear on women can be totally sexy. This is, of course, hardly revolutionary. Vogue reminds us of it every time they decide to stick someone in pants. After all, once upon a time, jeans were menswear, and everyone knows how sexy jeans are. A well-cut pair of trousers = sexy. And obviously, we all remember what raging loinfires were ignited by Brenda Walsh's neckties. However, another rule of thumb seems to be, to me, that too much of anything is often just too much. Exhibit A: Melissa George:

So close!  Maybe if it were properly tailored....or a color that didn't kind of make her look like an undertaker (albeit a sexy undertaker)...or there wasn't a preternaturally SHINY Vegasean tie involved.

Or, you know, maybe not.

Wow. It's been a long week, but I didn't think I'd be rendered speechless until at least some time after cocktail hour began. And yet here we are, nary a cocktail to be seen, and I am slurring my words and running into walls, thanks to this :

It's like Laura Ashley married a Poison video and then got really inappropriately drunk at the wedding and threw up all over Jennifer Connelly.  And, bless her, she's putting on a happy face about it, but inside, you just know she's thinking, "Damn, I hate the 80s. If Frank Whaley thinks this is some kind of coded message for him to call me, I'm going to cut a bitch."

JADE JAGGER (left): Well, that's a very confusing... Ooh, ooh, wait, I get it! You're a Tarot card reader! WICKED!

MARGHERITA MISSONI: No, I'm not, I'm just --

JADE: Oh, don't be modest. Tell me my fortune! You're an elderly seer who's been around the block; I bet you've got TONS to share.

MARGHERITA: Well, I don't know about THAT, I'm only 24.

JADE: You're... REALLY?

MARGHERITA: Come on, YOU know who I am. Socialite, member of famous fashion family, adored for my sense of style?

JADE: Bollocks to THAT, Madam Hay Fever -- I thought you were at least, you know, ANCIENT. Why are you in a caftan? Are you pregnant?

MARGHERITA: No.

JADE: Bloated?

MARGHERITA: No.

JADE: Trying to be the next Ali MacGraw?

MARGHERITA: Who?

JADE: Smuggling a keg inside?

MARGHERITA: No chance.

JADE: Quitting the fashion industry to live on a commune in New Mexico and make turquoise jewelry?

MARGHERITA: Listen, you know what, I've just remembered, I AM a Tarot reader. And I'm sensing your card is The Fool.

JADE: HA! Nice try, West Palm Beach Holistic Medicine Practitioner, but no 24-year old who looks older than my mum gets to call ME anything other than HOT. Toodles!

Okay, Heather, listen to me carefully: Be VERY still.

I'm deadly serious. Don't move. Don't turn or swivel or even so much as lean in any direction. Definitely don't sneeze. Refuse to wave. And for the love of God, don't jump around, no matter how vigorously House of Pain might entreat you to do. Just stay still like a statue and try not to breathe too deeply, okay? TRUST ME.

Because -- and remember, stay calm when I tell you this -- I am pretty sure your dress is about to Tara Reid itself straight on down to your waist. In fact, your right boob is already fluffing itself for its inevitable entry into Taradise. And believe me, you don't want anything else besides your hair color in common with that sad, sodden starlet. So stand there and don't do anything that involves actual MOTION for... a little while. Maybe all night. However long it takes. It'll be hard, but stay alive -- some boob tape WILL find you. Or perhaps a harness.

There's a scene in Fried Green Tomatoes where Kathy Bates hears the suggestion that you can spice up your marriage by answering the door encased in nothing but Saran Wrap, but when she tries it, she goes a little overboard and fashions herself a quaint little Sunday Best suit.

It is not often that Uma Thurman makes me think of Kathy Bates, but I am pretty sure here that she's applied that same arts-and-crafts zeal to a piece of spangly fabric she stole from a local prom committee:

I can't tell if that guy wants her autograph, or simply wants to show her a picture of a time when she wore actual dresses, and not simply the backdrop from the Enchantment Under The Stars photo booth.

Maybe, in honor of that blessed high-school ritual, we should sing a slow song. Here's one I've whipped up for the occasion:

Twinkle, twinkle, little stars,
I left my panties in the car.
Please blind the press 'til I get 'em back
So they won't see my exposed ass crack.

Polished or Poofy? You make the call:

We've definitely called out Marcia Gay Harden a couple times on this site -- once for looking a bit like a washed-up grande dame, and once for getting a little bit braggy about the fact that she remembered to wear a bra.

But other times, she can look completely hot; I  just saw her on The View, in fact, looking super fit and fantastic, and she is totally dishy here:

Okay, she's a TINY bit orange, but it looks like she came by it honestly and it doesn't frighten me or have me concerned she's going to turn herself into an homage to Katie Couric: The Makeover Years. I'm more focused on how she's rocking her bod, that lovely purple color, the cleavage-teasing necklace, and that awesome bob. See, it's people like her who get me thinking that I should cut my hair off again, forcing me to smack myself in an effort to remember that I don't HAVE any of these people's same hair, nor the patience to blow the curls straight every single day so that it will look halfway reasonable and not like I am the world's biggest Carrot Top fan.

Now I feel like I should apologize to Marcia for invoking the ginger goon in a post about how stellar she looks. Oh well. Hopefully she'll understand.

Leaving aside the leggings for a second, because if I don't then my brain cells start to burst in confusion and protest, I'm a little concerned about what Alice Evans has been up to lately:

Was she recently taken hostage at a New-Age Widow's Weeds convention? If so... I mean, bravo for escaping largely intact, but you don't HAVE to prove a point by leaving on the tape they used to bind your ankles. Indeed, were I Alice, I'd be at home making my hunky husband Ioan Gruffudd cut them off tenderly and then rub my feet before drawing me a bath and feeding me medicinal champagne and strawberries. I mean... seriously, go HOME, Alice.

Former child actress Gaby Hoffman, you may recall, was in Field of Dreams, and Uncle Buck, and Sleepless in Seattle and the terrible yet somewhat engrossing Now and Then, wherein she plays the young Demi Moore, and there actually is kind of a resemblance around the nose and chin, I think:

[Photo: Splash News]

Unfortunately, that's not the first thing that's gonna jump out at anyone. Not when she's wearing a  dress that's crying for the embrace of a hot iron the way I long for the sweet, boozy ministrations of Intern George. I mean, that dress is wrinkled.  Like a prune. A prune in desperate need of a hairbrush.

And, look, no one expects a former child star-turned college student-turned stage actress to show up on the red carpet looking....well, like Demi Moore. That would be kind of scary, frankly. But it's probably ALSO advisable to avoid arriving at events looking like you just came from the dress rehearsal of Clueless: The Musical, in which you are playing the Brittany Murphy role, pre-make-over. For all of us.

Amber Tamblyn, Halloween isn't for weeks yet! And while it's very flattering to see that you've decided to go as me circa the fifth grade, you've forgotten the Cabbage Patch Kid (named, if I can recall correctly, Aurora Borealis or something of that ilk), my practically endless supply of novelty pencils (most of which smelled like cinnamon) and whatever book I'd brought along to entertain me at whatever fancy boring grown-up event I was apparently attending (Harriet the Spy, probably).  Thank goodness you've got time to address this!

You know what's really NOT tacky, like, at ALL? Romancing the cameras at your awareness-raising World Hunger fundraiser -- which you are holding at a Taco Bell, presumably because you think that will convince people to run for the border... of blighted nations, with bags of burritos in their hands -- by pulling goofy, facetious poses and shoveling said burritos into your mouths as if to say, "Okaaay, I GUESS I'll eat now... I don't even really NEED to, but I will because I CAN, and it's HILARIOUS!"

[Photo: infdaily.com]

It's a photo that's very fug... of spirit, tainting an otherwise important cause. Although maybe Heidi or Spencer will manage to get a giant refried-bean stain on either of their outfits, thus giving it that kicky wardrobe-trouble angle also. Although, wait, are those little felt PAW PRINTS on Heidi's dress, or is that one in the center just an unfortunately canine-looking yet totally random collection of dots?

Also, I hate to say it, because he makes me want to draw his face on a balloon and then pop it with my stiletto, but Spencer -- for all his aura of being a giant windbag full of the stankest air -- has made a very dapper choice in his suit.

I just realized "dapper" anagrams to "rapped," which is what he did on Heidi's hilarious single, to equally amusing effect. Although that has nothing to do with anything, but this whole post is already veering off-topic so why not keep going? How are the kids? Did you ever beat the Armageddon level on Snood? And how can they kill off John Black on Days Of Our Lives while he's wrapped in head bandages, thus giving us no time to say a proper goodbye to Drake Hogestyn's Irresistably Incredibly Incomprehensibly Amazing Eyebrow of Shock/Terror/Amusement/Boredom/Vengefulness/Arousal? I mean, talk about a fugly thing to do, NBC. If we don't get a cocked-brow montage by the time John draws his last breath, I am going to... sit here and think unpleasant thoughts for five minutes before catching up on Bionic Woman. TRUST ME, YOU DON'T WANT THAT. And, frankly, neither do I -- Bionic Woman is terrible.

That is all.

Oh my god, M-K. Take a seat, so we can chat. You know I kind of love you now -- I loved your Harper's Bazaar cover, I love that you're not a lazy dilettante, and everyone loves a twin, right? -- but you concern me sometimes. No, no -- I'm not worried about your weight or your love life (I have my own weight and love life to think about, after all). I'm worried about your lip stick, gloss, stain or colorant of your choosing:

Namely, where is it?  I'm not wild about the shroud you're running around in either -- it's inching toward the city limits of Blandsville-- but you do love a nice long frock and it does seem very Calvin Klein-y minimal-y and who doesn't love the whimsical use of an elephant belt, am I right? If only the rest of you didn't look so bedraggled, like your car broke down and you had to walk thirty blocks to the event in really painful shoes, and now you FINALLY made it and you're EXHAUSTED and SWEATY and you chewed off all your lip gloss trying to hail a cab and oh my god, yes, fine, it's true, this dress WAS made from a window treatment, but it was a very SUBTLE and CLASSIC window treatment, so shut up and take the picture already.

And yet....somehow, someway, part of me feels like you almost make this work. Have I accidentally brainwashed myself from reading multiple articles about how you work really hard and aren't all fame-whorey and whatnot? And if so, how do I get deprogrammed? Do I have to lock myself in the bathroom with a pile of Atlantic Monthlys? Because, honestly, that would probably do me some good.

But, seriously, while I'm incarcerated, you've got to get some Revlon on up in there.

It stands to reason, really. We've got Thai Elvis, here in Los Angeles. And the Red Elvises. And now: BAI ELVIS:

She does look so lonely she could cry, no?

[Photo: infdaily.com]

I've decided that Rihanna, here pictured returning to her hotel after dinner, only ended up wearing this to a restaurant because her tap class ran late and she was starving but she didn't have her wallet, and so people dragged her straight out and treated her to a meal. That would make them Leggings Of Instant Gratification And Oh My God, I Need Pizza Before My Stomach Eats Itself, rather than a conscious rejection of tights --which not only would have looked cuter, but would've seemed a lot less like she is on call just in case The Best Goddamn Dancer At The American Ballet Academy; Who The Hell Are YOU? NOBODY! decides to drop out of the lead role Peter Gallagher choreographed for her in the world's most dreary ballet, and needs a replacement.

I like Holly Hunter -- come on, who doesn't enjoy her work in either Raising Arizona or Broadcast News, at the least? -- but her show Saving Grace always looked totally boring and yet overwrought to me, from the 30 seconds a week I'd see of it thanks to commercials running during The Closer. So, you know,  I have a totally great handle on what it was actually like. But from the looks of this, she also seems to think she might need to get another gig, and that said gig should be a remake of Deadwood crossed with a sensitive exploration of the inner lives of the Hells Angels:

Just call it O Pioneers of the Highway.

And she's fugging like she's never fugged before:

[Photo: Splash News]

Ah, Jennifer Beals -- putting the "flash" in "Flashdance," lest any of us forget from whence you came. Yet how could we? You were the world's worst welder, freakiest choreographer, most petulant person ever to throw a rock at her boyfriend's house, and greatest argument against the female tuxedo. Plus, you taught a whole world of men that, yes, women can rip off their bras without removing their outerwear. Bravo. Just maybe don't give in to the temptation to reenact that scene here for the fans. Areolas have a way of chewing up the scenery.

And now, reading a scrapped manuscript for an eighth book called Harry Potter and the Goblets of Underwire, we proudly present J.K. Rowling:

[Photo: Splash News]

I'm sure the kids at this L.A. event had no idea they'd be dealing with any twins other than the Weasleys. Thank God she was all Playtex'd up, and not instead the sad victim of a Summoning Charm on her nipples. Aw, but chin up, Jo -- the bra is at least doing great Mirren-esque things for your cleavage. Oh, and P.S., we don't care if you've had plastic surgery, as some people have suggested. We think you look fab. Let's have cocktails and talk about all the dishy English actors who played the older Hogwarts students, okay? I mean, that Cedric Diggory... we'd let him catch our snitches, if you know what I mean.

Cute dress on ScarJo here, but what's the deal with her face?

Look: I know what this girl usually looks like. And she's really, really good-looking. So how is it possible that ScarJo's been plonked on the cover of Elle looking (facially, anyways) like a moderately bloated, totally cranky college freshman who's just been informed that the cafeteria ran out of fat-free cream cheese? There is no way someone at Elle didn't look at this shot and say, "dude, what happened to her neck?" and then someone else probably said, "You've been watching a lot of Top Model, eh?" and then the first person was probably all, "NO. I...I love it! No one has necks for fall, haven't you heard?" And now, when all poor ScarJo wants to do is read the article about the benefits of alcohol (whoo!) or "What One Woman Did to Save Her Butt" (which I admit that I SHOULDN'T want to read -- because seriously, how bad could her butt have been? -- but I totally do, because HOW BAD WAS HER BUTT? I have to know!) but she is constantly greeted by the image of herself making an uncharacteristically generic bloaty face, kind of looking the way the rest of us do when we stumble into the bathroom after a night of beer and wings. Although thinking about wings makes me think about my own butt and in doing so, I am pretty sure I just discovered the method to this mad, mad cover: ScarJo is merely helpfully illustrating the face that woman made when she realized what she was going to have to do to save her butt.

Congratulations to Melissa George on her new show, Touched By A Goth:

I get that she was going for deep and dramatic lip color, but it came out looking like she ate a six-pack of black-cherry popsicles in the limo and washed it down with a bottle of red wine and some frothy O-negative. And while that doesn't sound like such a bad life -- except for the blood part; if there's anything that Moonlight has taught me, it's that Jason Dohring looks really out of place in a business suit with suspenders... oh, and also, being a vampire is awkward -- it's not exactly an ideal style choice. Although I'll grant her that my inability to notice anything but her aggressive mouth distracts me from the cranky face she's pulling. Perhaps she only just got through reading the message boards about her season of Alias.

It's time.

After countless warnings, we are finally at a full-on Red Alert at GFY HQ. It wasn't someone's rapid descent into skeevitude that sent us speeding down the highway to the danger zone; rather, it was an old nemesis -- the Mendoza to our McBain, the Gargamel to our Papa Smurf -- that has us worried.

This man's resolute refusal to tone down the crazy eyes -- some drops, maybe? Glasses? A blindfold? -- has us fairly sure he is not only hungry, but craving a romantic dinner for two with Hannibal Lecter over some fava beans, a nice Chianti, and the liver of an innocent.

Lady Victoria Hervey cracks me up. She looks like she's trying to win our hearts by acting the hugely stereotypical part of a wacky British country-dweller who does a lot of gardening, goes skeet-shooting in her spare time on the grounds of her manor, has an eccentric aunt who sells pickled vegetables at the village market, and says things like, "I say, that's just ducky," and, "Pip-pip, old chap!" And hey, the way the new fall season is going, it's entirely possible that, say, The CW will buy into her act and greenlight a show, Wellington's Boots, about a charming young English lass named Mavis "Wellie" Wellington who hits it big in the U.S. selling gardening gear on QVC... but can't cultivate a thriving personal life with three pounds of manure and a hoe! Look for it as part of a comedy block with Aliens in America, minus the charm but plus some serious pectoral muscles on the nice-but-dim downstairs neighbor, Jesse Metcalfe, who can bring a whole WORLD of faux-gardening expertise to the show from his Desperate Housewives stint. Throw in Jon Bon Jovi, a driven yuppie roommate played by Soleil Moon Frye, and Loni Anderson as the nosy but fur-clad neighbor, and you've got at LEAST two episodes before that thing gets unceremoniously canceled and replaced with shortened reruns of 7th Heaven episodes.

It's Salute To Buttons day here at GFY HQ, where we acknowledge the brave, necessary work of those wee plastic soldiers and their kin:

Only Bai Ling could wear jeans and a cardigan, and still find a way to make herself a) 50 percent naked , and b) one yawn or stiff breeze away from inviting you to ski her Alps. Let's hope this one of her many personalities -- who looks like she'd fit right into a managerial role at Mister Rogers' Neighborhood's local brothel --  carries a sewing kit, and isn't afraid to use it. Maybe Mister Rogers taught her how. Right before a bitter, jealous Mr. McFeeley caught her and King Friday XIII in a compromising position on the trolley, and Mr. R had to explain to everyone that the Kama Sutra and its many wonderfully acrobatic teachings are a beautiful thing between two loving, mostly fictional beings.

I don't even know what to say about this:

Are you for real, lady? This is like a very formal straitjacket, for those evenings at the Bethel-Thompson Hospital for the Criminally Insane when they let you out of your padded cell for supervised interaction with fellow inmates, all of whom -- like you -- are presumably being given electroshock therapy against their consent, probably because they've also accidentally stumbled upon state secrets that could bring about world destruction. I mean, how do you even go out in this? I can't live in a world where I could conceivably end up wearing a dress in which I flash my undies every time I try to put my hair in a ponytail.

I love, love, love Mad Men on AMC.  It's fascinating and creepy and engrossing and the outfits are, like...oh my god, the outfits are good.  I would watch it if it were silent. And Christina Hendricks here is great in it as this very va va vam voom good time girl/office manager with, of course, hidden depths and a SERIOUSLY good wardrobe, including a leopard print coat that I would kill you for. Yes, you. Move over, I want that coat. And she's very pretty, of course, but I have a question for you regarding the below:

Great shoes. Good dress (although I do wonder if she might have benefited from some extra working room in the bodice, as I suspect she'll be finding bits and pieces of dinner lurking in her cleavage for weeks, as it's sneaking suspiciously close to her mouth. I recently found a piece of spaghetti in my cleavage  -- shut up, I like my carbs -- and, let me tell you, the experience is ALARMING. She would do well, emotionally, to beware). But do my eyes suddenly work in high-def, or is that a rather lot of make-up?  Her Mad Men character would take a look at this, cluck sympathetically, hand her a handkerchief and hustle her off to the restroom to re-do it a bit more subtly, whilst imparting sly wisdom about how best to handle handsy and potentially homicidal  chauvinist coworkers.  Her stylist would be well-advised to do the same.

MEREDITH: Well, hello, Emmy, it's lovely to see you.

EMMY: You too, except... aren't you... We ARE attending the same event, right? Are you maybe a little underdressed?

MEREDITH: Well, I don't know about that, I think I look smart-casually chic, actually.

EMMY: How nice for you.

MEREDITH: Listen, honey, I'm in news. I like looking clean and smart. I don't need to look like Princess Gumdrop of Sugartown.

EMMY: Thank you!

MEREDITH: That wasn't a compliment. Tell me: Are you in costume as Glinda the Good Witch?

EMMY: No, I...

MEREDITH: Are you at the Oscars? The prom? A coronation?

EMMY: No. But I AM at a gala. You can't overdress for anything that calls itself a gala.

MEREDITH: Oh, but you're trying as hard as you can! Man, I wish someone would drop a house on that dress.

EMMY: Actually, that wasn't Glinda, that was...

MEREDITH: Can it, Peaches. You get the point. Are we done here?

EMMY: Buy my album!

MEREDITH: Yep... we're SO done here.

I was never a huge fan of The Brady Bunch when I was a kid. I didn't dislike it -- I'm sure I've seen practically every episode -- and I really enjoyed aspects of it, but when it came time to pick my favorite of the syndicated classic sitcoms in rotation on local channels in the mornings, that I got to watch whenever I was home sick from school, I was a devoted Bewitched girl. For one thing, the caftans were fabulous. For another, Samantha and Darren solve everything with a martini.  For a third: hello, magic! And I imagine if Maureen "Marcia Brady" McCormick here could have wiggled her nose and changed her outfit, she would have:

Marcia, Marcia....you know. While I actually like the colored tights with the boots, the rest of it is a bit -- I'm sorry, Maureen -- mutton dressed as lamb. Or, more accurately, mutton dressed as a schoolgirl crossed with a flapper married to a librarian. Which is an interesting and complex Halloween costume for sure, but (a) Halloween is still two and a half weeks off and (b) this isn't a costume party.

At first, I thought I might be able to live with Melissa Sagemiller's look here.

The ginormous necklace is sort of divalicious, and although I don't really understand why this isn't just a strapless dress -- as opposed to a strapless dress with a transparent top sewn to it -- I think the color is pretty. So, I was all prepared to pass this photo by and go scamper through fuglier pastures.

As usual, though, it turns out that troubling meadow of fug was somewhere down around her shins.

Eva Mendes' dress is kind of nifty.

That is, if you're a fan of fancy art-deco garrotes. Seriously, she's one false move from her head rolling off her shoulders and bouncing over to the open bar for one last cocktail. It would really put a damper on her young career -- I mean, Passions has a place for floating heads, but only when it's people like  Grease 2  star Adrian Zmed (you know, people who've really lived), who are willing to paint their faces white and wear powdered wigs while their disembodied noggins talk sass at a room full of witches. And only when the person is currently alive. So watch your neck, Eva.

When I went out and got my mail the other day, I shifted through the usual mish-mosh of bills, and SPECIAL OFFERS entreating me to subscribe to Dry Cleaners Union Weekly, and random coupons for auto detailing, and menus from Thai food places, and magazines, I saw this and thought, "Since when am I getting Cosmo?"

From the pink background, to the classic Cosmo model pose, to the breathless promise of TOTALLY BRAND NEW sex tips (which is a lie. There hasn't been a new sex tip in a magazine in ten years), to Mariah's kind of fascinatingly upscale(ish) yet trashy(ish) tight little frock that appears to have very large rhinestones affixed to it and therefore seems like it might be uncomfortable to sit down in because all you will feel are those stones digging into the delicate flesh of your posterior, I flicked this thing open fully expecting to find a spread on the latest Fun, Fearless Female and was instead greeted by....Glamour.  Surprising. I was relieved to learn that I haven't developed the magazine-ordering version of that disorder people get where they get up in the middle of the night and eat an entire chocolate cake, and that I won't be getting, like, American Cowboy and Inside Triathlon all of a sudden. But, while I'm sure Mariah is pleased with what the photoshoppers, and her trainer, and the dude who does her hair extensions hath wrought, I wonder if "Looking Exactly Like Cosmo" was the best way to go this month.

[Photo: infdaily.com]

SIR RICHARD BRANSON: And THEN I said, "Pam, do you really want to marry RICK SALOMON?"

PAMELA ANDERSON: And I was like, "er, too late, Richard!"

RICHARD: And I was like, "I don't know if this is the smartest idea you've ever had!"

PAMMY: And I was like, "I said, it's too late now, Richard!" Besides, maybe the third time's a charm, you know?

RICHARD: And THEN I said, "Pam, do you really want to reject that lined bra so cruelly?"

PAM: And I said, "yes."

RICHARD: She never listens to me.

Oh, Kristen Bell, I don't even know:

I mean, no one loves the whole Ruffly 80s Barbie Top more than I do, if only because it brings back memories of the Christmases of my youth, and because it makes me wonder if -- like many tops owned by Barbies of that era -- it is reversable, turns into a mini skirt, is hiding a sequined tube top, or will later be used to strangle Dream Date Ken to death after it is revealed that he is ALSO squiring around Tracy, of the Tracy and Todd wedding dolls. (My Tracy and Todd endured a terrible tragedy, namely that the rubber band holding his lower body to his upper body snapped while they were dancing at their wedding reception -- a lavish affair in my family's TV room -- and she found herself married to a bitter paraplegic and sought comfort with that cad Dream Date Ken.)

Equally tragic is K. Bell's insistence on wearing her Barbie top with a poufy tulip skirt, thus making her look rather like an oversized black and white cookie.

Apparently it's Celebrity Impersonators Week on GFY, because my first reaction to this photo of Kim Kardashian was, "Wow, she is doing her very best Salma Hayek."

[Photo: Splash News]

And I have to say, it's not bad. That color is fantastic, the makeup and hair are totally Salma, and the cleavage definitely rings a bell. They're fluffed up in a way a lot of other celebrities could certainly learn from, although it's also possible they were helped along by the loving slice of a surgeon's scalpel.

So what's my objection? Well, I just... it's Kim Kardashian, and y'all know how I feel about her already. (You should, however, visit her Web site -- caution: annoying music ahoy -- because despite never having seen any of it, I am pretty sure that her workout video and flash cards are going to change your life.) I just think she will never, ever be as interesting in life as she is in her own mind, and so somehow even when she shows up somewhere in an outfit I would probably totally love on Ms. Hayek, my reaction is, "Meh." Although, in one sense I suppose I have to hand it to her -- if you're going to ape anyone, Salma Hayek is a pretty spectacular choice.

Kim, Kim, Kim. We weren't with you when you tried to become Paris Hilton. We weren't with you when you started dating Tommy Lee. We weren't even with you years ago when you guest-starred on the brilliant Undeclared, and my guess is the Apatow Factory might not have been with you that much either, since you have never been recycled into anything else (a practice we generally approve of with them, since otherwise, we might have missed out on more of Seth Rogen, Jay Baruchel and Carla Gallo, and I don't want to think about that kind of life).

[Photos: infdaily.com]

So why on Earth would we be with you now that you've decided to rip a page out of Posh's book? For one thing, don't do that -- her books are best consumed without any missing bits, I promise, and preferably while you are on the beach holding a fruity drink that will blur your vision a tad -- and for another, just...you are no Victoria Beckham, my dear. Lots has to happen, like professing your undying belief that Joan Collins is your real mother or letting your toddler "write" its own "autobiography," before we'll laugh off you wearing designer hot pants or happily sit through an hour of a reality special about you that appears to have been run through a massive footage blender before being chucked onto the screen. Spare yourself. Don't bring us your Weak Spice.

Having said that, yours looks better than Paris's, so if you're still BFF, maybe consider a hair intervention. You could go to the wig shop together. God, that sounds fun. Maybe Jess and I will take the rest of the day off.

WOW, Shannnnnynnnn Sossssssamoooonnnnn:

Unless you actually are a creepy doll who's come to life thanks to the recent inauspicious combination of the full moon, Mercury in retrograde, the inexplicable existence of Cavemen, certain devilish machinations of Spencer Pratt, and global warming, then this dress is just TOO MUCH, and you are freaking me out. Stop looking at me like that. No, seriously. Are you thinking about eating my face? Because you look like you're thinking about eating my face and I am going to NEED THAT if I expect to be able to run out to the corner store for beers later. Beers which I suddenly need. A LOT.

Once, just once, I'd love to see Bryce Dallas Howard ditch the clunky robes and dress like the twenty-something she is.

Separately, I enjoy that she's at a "Clinique Happy" event in an oppressive, depressing robe. It gives off the impression that she's ogling the crowd and thinking, "Yes, yes... one more eye of newt and some hair from the hussy on the left, and I'll have the PERFECT potion for turning Paris Hilton into a satin-and-feather sofa that'll be stuck in the "CLEARANCE" section of Bobby Trendy's store for all eternity!"  Which... come to think of it, if that's her master plan, then maybe I'll just move along quietly. Nothing to see here. Everybody just leave Bryce to her TOTALLY INNOCENT business.

[Photo: Splash News]

"That's right, everyone, soy yo -- Jennifer LAWpez! HA! Officer Drama of the Fashion Police! I'm a soldier of mystery, chumps! Just TRY and solve me! Dios mio, this is fun! What should I dress as tomorrow? A Magic 8-Ball? Signs point to si!"

I like Marley Shelton. I may be the only person in America who really thought Sugar and Spice was funny (I promise you, next time you're sick/hungover and it comes on USA Network, give it a shot. There's an amusing Conan O'Brien subplot, at the very least). And I think, from this angle, she looks great:

I love the jewelry and the bag, and the tailoring on the bodice is great.

But then there's the rest of it:

This is Doris Younane, an Australian actress who appears on the show McLeod's Daughters over there, and who has a name that is extremely fun to say. Try it!

Apparently, her character on this show "manages the truck stop and sometimes moonlights as the psychic 'Mystic Miranda'. " Which brings up a couple of questions: (a) why am I not watching this show (er, other than because I am not living in Australia), if it has both truck stops AND psychics with alliterative names? and (b) is she, then, currently in costume?

Michelle Monaghan kind of looks like Ellen Pompeo in this picture. And she's doing a cocktail-length take on that Grecian thing that E.Pomp was so into for a while. But I can't decide if I like it, or if it leaves me cold -- for instance, the color looks nice against her fair skin, and the lines of the skirt are interesting. But the old leather belt around her waist looks like she unbuckled a horse bridle and threw it on as a tribute to Black Beauty or something, the shoes are maybe a little clunky for the grace she's attempting with the dress, and is it just me, or would the dopey fallen-sleeve thing get really annoying after a while? I feel like I'd be picking and clawing at it all night. It looks so droopy. It's like half the bodice is taking a nap.

And yet, she is very glowy... it's a tough one.

According to the unimpeachable sources over at Wikipedia, Edith Bowman here is a British television presenter and Radio 1 DJ. What Wikipedia fails to mention, however, is that she's also, apparently, an elf:

Admittedly, those booties are pretty fashion-forward for Santa's Workshop. I hope the other elves don't make too much fun of her.

"Pregnant? Me? Stripey, sweet me? Ay, HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA, oh, it's so good, I can't stop, HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Does anyone care about Ben's Twiggy Wife and her womb this much? NO. I WIN I WIN I WIN. And I look  fabulous in all my boots and dresses and hats because I am the ONE TRUE DIVA and I like to keep you guessing and you are EATING out of the PALM of my HAND.

Rose Byrne's Press Junket of Tears continues apace:

Maybe she truly hates doing press, or those shoes really hurt, or she just found out that her neighborhood grocery store has decided to stop stocking Kettle Chips, all of which are legitimate reasons to pose with that tortured expression on her face. But to all problems in life there are solutions. For the first, she could remember that she is an actress and is unfortunately contractually obligated to do these things, even if she doesn't like them, and that until she is famous enough to be crotchety and refuse to attend events, she should probably plaster on a smile and dash through the press line to the open bar, where she can complain that she hates this shit to her costars, who will sympathize in a way that her publicist, for example, will not. For the second, she needs to remind herself that she can totally take her shoes off when she gets inside, and hold tight to the vision of her freed tootsies like grim death. And for the last, dude -- I feel you. That would be a tragedy. Salt and vinegar rules my world. That's when you call your people and scream, "I WENT TO THAT STUPID PREMIERE I WANT SOME CHIPS NOW SEND A PA OVER WITH A CRATE! NO! TWO CRATES! AS MANY CRATES AS HE CAN CARRY!"

That's what I would do. Rather than wrap myself in another sort of poorly-washed looking number that does a pale girl no favors at all (but, honestly: I assume the Drab Parade thing is a Stylistic Choice, but did she just move somewhere with really hard water or something? Is her significant other surreptitiously tossing a black sock in with all her whites in a passive-aggressive attempt to derail her career? What is going on here?).

Hilary Duff's latest project is apparently called Greta, and the IMDb summary claims it's the touching tale of a waitress who falls for an ambitious chef -- "but as their love blossoms, she has to overcome the concerns of her grandparents," who clearly don't understand that having a hot dude who will cook for you is, like, the Holy Grail of booty calls. Separately, my fascination with this movie just shot up several notches to "existent" once I saw that IMDb claims both Ellen Barkin and Ellen Burstyn are in the film. I've decided they're either they're playing lesbian grandparents -- one of whom is strangely young -- in a really progressive movie, or that whoever filled in the page for this movie couldn't remember which "Ellen B" was supposed to be in it and just put them both down for shits and giggles. And, well, obviously those two fine ladies would compete for roles, because they bring exactly the same qualities to the table. Like talent. And vaginas.

And frankly, we'd like to see them both fight for it. Imagine the differently layered scenes we'd get as Granny NoCharacterNameYet scolds Hilary-as-Greta for twirling around town in what appears to be a yellow bikini under a Forever 21 halter, further stuffed underneath a glorified Yuletide tutu that makes her look about four feet tall.

[Photo: infdaily.com]

We imagine Burstyn would skitter around the kitchen making cornbread while sassily lecturing her granddaughter on wearing petticoats out in public. Conversely, Barkin -- annoyed that she's playing a grandmother at all -- would simply pour herself into a tight dress, fluff up the ladies, and suck on a martini-soaked olive while purring, "Listen, Stumpy. You're not in a music video. Scrap the moldy old prom dress and start living each day like it's 'Skin To Win' season. Your legs are depending on you." And, no offense to Burstyn, we'd rather see that movie.

Unless they can convince the producers to cast Barkin as Burstyn's daughter, in which case, they should've just confused the hell out of everyone by casting Ellen Page in the Duff role, making Ellen DeGeneres her aunt, pitting them all in a battle of (t)wits against obnoxious restaurant hostess Ellen Pompeo and the evil owner, NFL tight end Kellen Winslow, Jr. The winner? Helen Hunt, because there was no room for her in this debacle.

Dear Kim Kardashian:

We get it. You are voluptuous. It's lovely to see you embracing your curves, as the ladies magazines say (albeit usually about someone very petite, like Jessica Alba). We are glad you have not decided to just chew on a piece of bark every other day and call it a meal. But while all of that is well and good, have you noticed that you haven't left the house in something that wasn't painted on in what feels like approximately six to seven years?

You didn't have to pair your pencil skirt with a midriff-baring gold lame crop-tank.  In fact, while I admire the shininess of both pieces -- and actually feel like I probably need a black sequined pencil skirt -- together, this gives off a whiff of High Glass Pit Boss at the Trump Taj Mahal, and I can't imagine that was your vision for the evening.

It seems like Oksana Baiul, when getting dressed for the premiere of High School Musical: The Ice Tour (which...I mean, I understand that HSM is a huge, huge, huge hit, but for serious? An ice tour? I can't wait until they're casting a Zac Efron-alike and making him sky-dive into malls or something next), remembered, "oh, YEAH. I'm a figure skater too! I'm going to wear something ATHLETIC!"

And also, apparently, totally geriatric.  I suppose it's possible that she's up for a role in the next Rascal Scooter infomercial and this is her version of the whole Sean Young in a Catsuit drama, but either way, she looks a bit too close to popping open an Ensure and asking me about my living will for comfort.

Apparently, the Zima sisters are a trio of child actresses who, so far, we hope are largely unaffected by the fact that they share a surname with a girly malt beverage usually consumed by high-schoolers or Homer Simpson -- and even then, only when he's already drunk. Fortunately, since only one of the Zimas is 21, we probably don't have to worry for a while about an embarrassing corporate sponsorship in which they're contractually bound to attend Hollywood Halloween parties dressed as each of Zima's three zhitty flavors (to pilfer an old Kevin Nealon joke). 

However, we do have to worry about Yvonne. Or, as I like to call her, The One Standing In The Middle. Ardent ER fans -- all three of them who will still admit to it, anyway -- might remember her as Mark Greene's daughter Rachel, before they gave him a brain tumor and recast her so she could be older, brattier, and a heavy-handed plea from the writers for us to pity Mark further.

Ardent brassiere fans will more likely commit her to memory as the girl who taught them that wearing a bra around a piece of stretchy gold fabric somehow doesn't get you laughed out of a room in Hollywood.

I'm not entirely certain why her two older sisters didn't do more to conceal their youngest sibling's underwire fetish; maybe they're all up for the same part and they're hoping the casting director won't be able to see Yvonne's acting past her Maidenform.  Of course, in this town, she'll probably end up with her own fashion line instead.

Listen, Nelly. You can wear all the bling in the world -- you can be a bling farm, you can move into the House of Bling, you can be the empress of Blingtenstein -- but it still won't hide the fact that you're not wearing a SHIRT. A BRA IS NOT A SHIRT. Not even if it's a Victoria's Secret Second Skin Satin ladysling fortified with smelted C-3PO. She looks like a facialist and waxer at the Death Star Bliss Retreat and Spa ("Be An Emperor For A Day!") for keeping Storm Troopers' skin blackhead-free.

Ladies and gentleman, I present to you Adrien Brody: Oscar winner, Halle Berry kisser, ladies' man, man's man, man about town, and now...LOUNGE SINGER!

This fall at Arizona Charlie's Boulder Highway Hotel and Casino, come see Brody as he performs his one-man show of shows, The Pianist! This Time, With 100% Less Nazis! (the exclamation points make it whimsical, you know?). Because when you've won an Oscar for a really sensitive film about extremely serious subject matter, what better way to cash in than by using those ivory-tinklers to show everyone a real good time?! Take it away, Adrien!

[Photo: Splash News]

LAGERFELD: PET! Let me clutch you.

KIRSTEN: Hi, Karl. Dig my Ray Bans? They're so Risky Business, so Tom Cruise.

LAGERFELD: Cruising is for drunk people. DO A SHOT OF LIFE.

KIRSTEN: I think I already did -- it feels good to be out and about looking showered and cute.

LAGERFELD: How DIVINE you look. A vision in cranberry.  To touch you is to cleanse the urethra. SPIN.

KIRSTEN: It's good, right? And the purple purse? I'm adorable!

LAGERFELD: If I'd never seen you before, I would say, "Dear GOD, who is that WOMAN? Send her a goldfish."

KIRSTEN: That ... means a lot, I'm fairly sure.

LAGERFELD: I can't squeeze hard enough, Miss Scarlett. Promise me you'll do it in the conservatory with the lead pipe.

KIRSTEN: You're a kick.

LAGERFELD: Kicking is for the mobile, darling. BE A STATUE.

We need to talk about Jennifer Garner, and not in a OH MY GOD JENNIFER PUT AWAY THOSE WHITE SATIN HOT PANTS kind of way, thank goodness. Basically, while our fondness for her is well-documented, even the haters have to admit that she has been WORKING IT lately. I love the dress she wore to the London premiere of The Whatever It's Called That Looks Sort of Like Alias But With Jamie Foxx And Without Wigs, Which Is Generally a Mistake:

And I ALSO love the dress she wore to the Paris premiere of same:

So pretty! And colorful! And classic! But not boring! But while whoever's styling her has been really on the ball lately (I know that she often works with Rachel Zoe, and if that's the case, I must salute you, Zoe, even if I don't enjoy it), most of all, I have been coveting her hair. I don't know what she's putting in it to make it so shiny and bouncy -- volumizer? Violet's saliva? The blood of virgins? -- but I want some, and I will pay whatever you charge.

While our distaste for the very high-waisted pant is well known, I must say that I rather like a high-waisted skirt. Because you avoid the wonky crotchular/belly issues that come with high-waisted pants, it's more flattering, AND you get to maintain that retro sense of "Doris, have you seen where I put my snood? I simply can't go to the USO without it! The sailors are waiting!" So it's too bad that Rose Bryne has decided to get her wartime bride on so drably and crankily:

Rose, a little hint from me to you: this would have been so much cuter with a shirt that didn't look as though you'd brined it like a turkey. The color of the skirt is off-kilter enough -- in a good way --that it doesn't need the addition of a shirt that you appear to have just used as a coffee filter. Also, try a wee little smile. Just one. Even half of one. Show one little tooth. You'll feel so much better.

It pains me to fug Amy Sedaris -- aside from my admiration for the talents of her and her brother David, watching Amy on her guest appearances on Martha has spiced up many a morning here at GFY HQ. But I'm a little worried Martha's arts-and-crafts nature -- maybe the fumes from some papier-mache, or from sniffing the glue you use to glitter up your Halloween pumpkins -- might have gotten to Amy's head. Or, more accurately, the rest of her. 

I don't have the strength to discuss the leggings right now, because the rest of her outfit appears to be inspired by the paper smocks you sometimes put on to visit the girlie doctor. She looks like a flight attendant on Air Gyno. Is there something she knows that we don't? Is the celebrity world moving toward a place where, alongside random drug testing and breathalyzers, famous people could be subject to spontaneous spelunking of various and sundry lady caves? Is this going to put the "pap" in "paparazzi"? If so, well, congratulations, Amy -- churn 'em out in a few more colors and you'll make a killing selling those things at Target.

Gabrielle Union appears to be dressed for some kind of event that takes place outside her own kitchen. Why can't Regina King do it?

I'm all for comfort, really. But I just feel like, if you're about to give yourself a spa facial and some sauna time, don't plan to multi-task by doing it AT the party.

"Yo yo YO, beeyotches, it's David Gest in the HIZZZZAAAAAY!"

"WORD, you know what I'm saying? I mean... fo' SHIZ, homeslice! I'm coming for yo' ass, Eminem -- the world wants to hear my wack rhymes, right, and it's TIME for you to understand the TRUE David Gest. My first single is gonna be called, 'Bitch Threw A Vase At My Head,' and the B side is, ''Vaginica Seaman, Where Have You Gone? 'Cause You Gots To Clean My Fridge.' It's gonna be OFF the HOOK, peeps. Come with me on this wack journey, because all the proceeds go to my charity, Chinese Girls With Herpes. Don't come crying to me if you're from Kenya or Iceland or friggin' Japan and you have the herpes -- I don't give a DAMN about YOUR plight, you hear? I am only ONE MAN. One wild, rockin', cool as HELL, MAD HIP dude. Come roll with me."

I was noodling around at the Borders last night night -- I love the section of the newsstand featuring all the super obscure publications, like, I don't know, Pants and Periscopes Monthly -- and this cover caught my eye:

I gotta admit, I think she looks kind of adorable and great here. Lately, I've sort of been taken by the Olsens. Do they often look as though they're wearing something they've been composting? Yes. But they seem to take their (multitude of) jobs seriously, and they're rarely vomiting out of the side of a limo and, I don't know, I just think they're sort of charming all of a sudden.  Which is why it's nice to see M-K modifying her traditional pouty fish-face into sort of a charming smirk and looking all clean and sort of glamourous, and yet relaxed and grown-up and confident. So, although I am not wild about HB's headlines layout (I know they're going for "uncluttered" but it looks sort of like the cover of Blush, the magazine on Just Shoot Me! -- which, seriously, doesn't Just Shoot Me! sound totally like a made-up show now, like a television show from a chick lit novel about a harried but charming 20-something television producer who eventually finds love with the guy who owns the bodega downstairs? I blame the punctuation), I have to give them a well-played for this one. Maybe on the next cover, we'll even see her teeth.

[Photo: infdaily.com]

ALEXA VEGA:  Oh my GOD, I can't believe I'm getting photographed with PARIS HILTON. This is so AWESOME.

PARIS: What are you, person? You remind me of something.

ALEXA: My movie Spy Kids?

PARIS: No! Duh -- I hate science. I think it's... you kind of look like Lindsay Lohan rolling out of some dude's hotel room at seven in the morning.

ALEXA: Dammit, it's the stain on my pants, isn't it? I KNEW it was noticeable.

PARIS: No, that just reminds me of the time I puked all over Nicky's Cyndi Lauper costume.

ALEXA: When you were kids?

PARIS: Yeah, like two whole years ago, and she's STILL mad at it, like, whatever, I don't even REMEMBER anything else about that year. She tried to tell me that I didn't need to bring breath mints out with us on Halloween because it wasn't THAT kind of trick-or-treating, and I got so mad at her for killing my buzz.

ALEXA: That's...

PARIS: But THIS year I'm going as Wayne from Wayne's World. But, like, a sexy man-girl Wayne. The kind with BOOBS. This is most of what I'm wearing. Isn't it hott? You want me.

ALEXA: One time I got to...

PARIS: Hey listen, if I cut off one of your braids, could I smoke it?

ALEXA: What? So now you don't like my...

PARIS: I told Larry King I would be good. It's not illegal to inhale if I'm smoking hair, right?

ALEXA: I can't believe you're allowed to wear a wig and a trucker hat, and you're ragging on me for looking like Pippi Longstocking just discovered the 80s floor at Polly Esther's.

PARIS: Longstocking? What's that, like a body condom?

ALEXA: I'm beginning to think I've made a huge mistake.

This woman, Schatar Taylor, was renamed "Hottie" by Flavor Flav on Flavor Of Love, because... well, according to our friends at Wikipedia, it had something to do with her breast size (which later came into play OH SO FIENDISHLY because he made the girls take a lie detector test, and poor Hottie turned out to have lied about her age and her measurements, and this was enough to get her booted because if Flavor Flav stands for anything -- besides Vikings, zealous timekeeping, and shiny teeth -- it is clearly the importance of being honest about one's boob-to-waist-to-booty ratio).

And, look, I know I should probably cut Hottie some slack for the fact that a) she is performing at some sort of Fox Reality Channel awards show, which probably means their first attempt at filling this time involved people from The Real World having a live orgy with half the Big Brother cast; and b) she was hanging around a man whose hobby is wearing enormous clocks, which could easily scramble a girl's sense of what is outerwear and what isn't. But ... it's been long enough, Hottie. The residual effects of Flav should have rinsed off by now, as those timepieces do not seem water-resistant. He's probably named three other girls in his life Hottie (with alternate spellings, I'm sure, like Hottay and HotTiE and Hotty Bombalotty).  So there's no real excuse for going out in public looking like the by-product of some heavy mating and procreating by Fergie and Lil' Kim. Please keep this outfit between you and the softer side of Sears.

I can not BELIEVE this! Brooke Hogan -- a young lady well known for her delicate, Emmy Rossum-like levels of demuritude and modesty, no? Well, that's what I've read -- wearing, erm, this? NO!

It is rare that I find myself without any comment at hand, without a comparison to something that happened on Dynasty, to one of the Wakefield twins, or on a television show airing between 11am and 3pm on a major network  featuring evil twins/people trapped in avalanches, coal mines or mineshafts/mistaken paternities/fake incest that turns out to be real incest and then back to fake incest/floating heads/brain transplants/an elderly woman surfing  the crest of a tsunami-created wave through the streets of town atop the coffin of her dead sister who of course isn't actually dead (remind me again why Passions is no longer on network television?). And yet here we are. I got nothing. No jokes about cougars or the Cheetah Club. No cracks about being mauled, or getting this at THE mall. Nothing springs to mind regarding the stripperlicious outfits on the recent finale of Rock of Love, or, in fact, about love conceptually. Or, for that matter, about rocks. I am out. I am broken. It's like on Friends when Joey says something that beautifully sets up a snide Chandler response, but Chandler's got his mouth full of muffin and in his hurry to get the joke out, totally chokes. My brain is totally full of muffins right now.

If anyone else showed up in this, I would be all, "Nice toga, LOSER."

Okay, except maybe for J.Lo, who -- wouldn't you agree? -- is practically The Block's answer to Cate Blanchett anyway. But Cate Blancett is cool, and possibly from the future, and I feel like she kind of makes her High Fashion Night With Polyphonic Spree thing work. I mean, maybe it'll turn out that we're all wearing fantastically colored togas in the future....right?

I was thinking to myself yesterday, "you know, I haven't seen Clay Aiken for a while. I wonder what he's up to?"

Yes, friends, he was locked up in his basement with The Trumpinator2000, an elaborate machine similar to a Bowflex, which -- in only 20 minutes a day, three days a week -- will eventually transform your face, hair and brows from whatever they used to be into something more closely resembling  The Donald.  Women (especially those with bad eyesight) will flock to you! Your friends will claim to be "amazed" and "stunned"! Your mother will cry! Probably with joy, because who doesn't dream of her baby turning himself into a wee Trumplette, right? A steal for even the regular Joe at just six payments of $79.99, The Trumpinator2000 is thrilled to have superstar Clay Aiken as its first celebrity spokesperson!

"Bienvenidos, amigos, to my GLORY.

[Photo: Splash News]

"You! You down there! You are not drinking it in, tonto! Gulp with your soul! Chug with your eyes! If you stare at this long enough that they start to cross, you see Marc in a feathered headdress eating a banana. Or as they say in South Beach, HEAVEN. Dios mio, I feel fertile. I must get jiggy."

PAMELA DENISE ANDERSON, GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW.

What are you doing applying for a marriage license? You haven't even been divorced from the last one for all that long.

[Source: Splash News]

But most vitally, WHAT ARE YOU DOING applying for a marriage license with RICK SALOMON -- he of One Night In Paris (and a bunch of nights in Shannen Doherty), who is a total skeeze and has probably put a lipstick cam in your panties so he could get good cutaway shots to edit into your inevitable sex tape?

Obviously, we have slightly different taste in guys, although at least I can understand what drew you to Tommy Lee and Kid Rock (you just know that dude can procure a keg practically out of thin air, if required, AND you can probably borrow his hair products if yours run out). What exactly made you compelled to go for three with Rick Salomon, whose last name always makes me think of "salmonella," which then makes me think of vomiting, which then brings me right back around to Rick again? You seem fairly cool, if slightly in a frenzy to get hitched again; what came unscrewed here? Are you drunk? Did he brainwash you? Has he promised you a lifetime (read: a solid six-monthtime), of flattering camera angles and soft lighting?

Because here's the thing, Pammy: You don't HAVE to get married. Remember that hot model, Marcus Scheckenberg? You didn't marry him. And you didn't marry that magician you've been working with in Las Vegas -- and, seriously, you're already IN Vegas, so if the two of you didn't spontaneously get hitched at the Little White Chapel Of Empty Promises, then you clearly CAN resist the compulsion.  And come to think of it, if you must get married, why NOT marry the magician Hans Klok? Think about it: He's not Rick Salomon. He didn't bone Paris Hilton. And if for some reason he had a head injury and DID sleep with her, he at least didn't sell the evidence. Also, arguably the most vitally, think about how awesome your married name could be: Pammy Klok. It sounds like the heroine of a very efficient, economical Swedish children's story about an IKEA clerk. Pammy Klok and the Ghost In The SVÖKKA. It's going to be a hit.

But I digress. Why not stay fabulously single for a while? Surely there are some nice people out there who'd like to squire you around town, and who don't give the rest of us hives. So GO TO YOUR ROOM AND THINK ABOUT WHO THEY MIGHT BE. There is not a Caps Lock key in the world that's strong enough to make that point. Then, if you insist upon doing it, just take this advice: Don't say anything bad about his ex-wife Shannen, because that broad will CUT a bitch. Fear Brenda Walsh. That is all.

Good luck, and maybe cancel that paperwork,

Heather

When I was getting ready to write this, I thought to myself, "What is the deal with Patricia Arquette?"

"Why does she always leave the house looking like that wacky woman who lives three doors down from you, who is REALLY nice and sort of very interesting, but who is always puttering around her side yard with lanyards she's made from her own hemp and whose rickety old Volvo is full of spare change, plastic doll heads, potting soil, and hundreds of unopened packets of raw sugar?" Then I realized: DAVID Arquette is always leaving the house looking like that wacky woman's best friend, the one who seriously considered going to clown college. It's GENETIC. In the end, you can't fight DNA.

It's possible I would pass right by Bonnie Wright without much thought about her clothes, if she didn't so frequently look miserable.

She just seems so cross. Like, "Listen, DON'T TALK TO ME, okay? My mother made me wear the tights and my dad shoved me into the cardigan because he said I'd be cold, but because it's a size too small I'm going to have SWEAT STAINS in my armpits in about ten minutes, and no, I don't know if Daniel or Rupert ever hooked up with Emma and I've never seen Dan without his kit on, and YES, I DO think Ginny should have more lines in all the movies, thanks so much for reminding me, and I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT ANY OF IT RIGHT NOW." 

Buck up, honey -- you're a Weasley! You have all that pretty red hair and a lot of pluck, and if you're drastically cut out of the next movie, THEN maybe we can talk. But look at it this way: It's not like you're Cho Chang, who is annoying; Tonks, whose character kind of DID get ruined in the last movie; or the besnouted suck-up Pansy Parkinson in Slytherin. Life could be worse. And so could your outfit. So SELL IT instead of looking like you want to open up a can of Avada Kedavra on your stylist's ass.

Every so often, as you have probably gleaned from how often we yap about it, we're inspired to let our fingers do the walking on our Random Fugs -- sometimes, we'd rather have another bag of Kettle Chips, of course, but other times our curiosity gets the best of us, and so far no cats have been harmed in any of these episodes.

More often than not, actually making an effort is richly rewarded by awesome information that warms our cold, dead hearts. Take actress Wolke Hegenbarth, for example. When you translate her Wikipedia page -- which we assume is probably not the most reliable or accurate way to read German, but we don't mind; it's almost better when it's jacked up -- it tells you that in addition to her TV role, she's starred in such moving cinematic poetry as One Dog, Two Suitcases, And A Very Large Love, and of course the classic Dead Trousers.

Evidently, the latter was a documentary.

In it, we learn how a girl and her obsession with bikini waxes led to the tragic ritual suicide of all her pants, which shredded themselves in protest because she refused to wear anything that covered her upper thighs. If a disco beach party breaks out -- as we assume it will, because nothing says "disco beach party" to us quite like the German Television Awards -- she'll be well prepared to do the Hustle either in or near the ocean.

Apparently, a theme at this year's boob-tube fete in lovely Deutschland was, "Have you heard about my waxer?" Behold: